The Entire World is a Battlefield
by ProfessorHojotheGEN-I-US
Summary: Guts recounts the events of the Eclipse, wondering if the path he's taking is the right one. His fallen comrades appear in front of him, and Guts wonders if they're there to help him, or crush his resolve.


A/N: A more serious Berserk fanfiction for the Ultimate Fanfiction contest on DA. It was just so openly wonderful, that my curiosity was piqued.

Disclaimer: Berserk and all its characters belong to Kentaro Miura

Rating:

**-xoxoxoxoxoxoxox-**

The Entire World is a Battlefield

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His sword cut through the air, the sound of screaming echoing from behind it. Inhuman screams; an unearthly variety. But it made sense considering that these weren't screams of human beings but, rather, the screams of demons. Whether from Hell or a void of pure darkness, born of if, living in it, now creeping their way slowly into Guts' darkness. But things like this happened every day. It wasn't uncommon for Guts to get little to no sleep, he was used to that. However, the ever increasing darkness, of his soul and body, attracted more and more of these things.

It was the brand that called them. Ever since he had been marked on that day, he hadn't been able to escape this reality. Not that he necessarily wanted to. Swinging his sword like this, feeling the hilt of Dragon Slayer underneath his palm, he felt more alive than ever using this slab of iron to render his foes asunder. Puck thought it foolish of him to live this way, to live for the kill, not worry about his own life. But what the little elf didn't understand was that this was Guts' reality. There was no other way for him to express himself than on the battlefield. And it wasn't for the glory or the praise. It was for that overwhelming feeling of being alive.

When he bled, and that blood ran down from every open wound, it was shock . A shock to his brain and the tips of his fingers. It was reminding him that he was alive. Without this reality, Guts wasn't sure where he would be right now. Wandering aimlessly somewhere looking for a purpose? No, he knew the truth of where he'd be. Had he not the life he was living, he would most surely be dead. Not dead in the literal sense, but dead inside. Without a purpose for living, without the pain of knowing he was alive, then he was better off dead. This was a hard fact to explain to people who had never lived the life he had.

Noblemen were far beneath this notion. Sure, they fought their fair share of battles, well, some of them, anyway. But it wasn't a matter of life and death to them. Not like it was for the Black Swordsman, the man who survived the Eclipse. All they cared for was increasing their rank, placing somewhere among normal society, being admired for taking the head of the general of the opposing army. Guts never expected, nor wanted, this "glory." There were only few people in the world who understood this reality, and most of them had died on that day.

Pushing it from his mind, Guts' focus numbly came back as Puck shouted, "Guts! Behind you!"

Planting his foot firmly into the earth, dirt crumbling around his armored boot, Guts spun with such a force that he knocked numerous demons over from the force of the wind his sword created. And then he felt flesh and bone, his sword halting at first, until he caught his leverage and pushed his sword through. It was a relatively clean slice, cutting through the monster like a battering ram. Blood sprayed over Guts' hands and face, mixing with the blood that was already his. The demons cry was loud and piercing, its head tilted towards the heavens, seeming to call out for something, but becoming immediately silenced when blood gurgled from the beasts throat, spilling out over the jagged teeth and crusted lips.

It fell to the ground with a sickening thud, its torso separated from its lower half. But the demons didn't falter, barely batted an eye. Thus, the assault continued, Guts taking out countless demons, blood pouring like rain, spilling over everything and coating the ground a deep, dark red.

"_It's just like … that time,"_ Guts thought to himself, his one good eye widening slightly. And his resolve faltered for just a second, the memories of that day floated back to him, filling his brain with the images he did not need to focus on at the current time.

Screaming a feral cry, Guts lunged forward, expecting to feel the familiar iron against skin, the only sound of opposition the breaking bones and cries of death. But the feeling he received instead … it wasn't that the same. It was the sound of iron against iron, like two swords scrapping together, fighting for dominance. Looking up, Guts was met with a sight that made his blood cold:

"You never change do ya? Always swinging that huge sword around, thinking that you're the only one that matters. Well, Guts?"

Guts stood paralyzed as he looked upon the face of one of his dead comrades. "Corkus you—you're dead, I-I saw … I say you _die!_" His voice sounded scared even to him, which bothered him. But it was true. Corkus, as well as the rest of the Band of the Hawk had died. Even though some had lived, Caska, Griffith, Rickert, and himself were a good example, the band was still dead. There was nothing left. All their hopes and dreams shattered and gone, resting on the shoulders of one man who destroyed everything in an instant. That man killed everything and destroyed even himself when he had agreed to release himself to the darkness.

His flashback evaporated instantly when Corkus replied with a snort, "Dead? Ha! I bet you wish I was."

It was true, though. Corkus certainly didn't look dead. There were no scraps or abrasions on his body anywhere. Armor like new as he stood there, that skeptical look of slight distrust and hidden admiration peering at Guts. It was a look he had seen many times before, and the world around him began to dull. His body grew colder and numb as he stood staring at a fallen comrade, wondering what the trick was. It was surely the work of a demon or something. It had to be. The events of that day were so permanently engraved within his brain, that there was no way that this could be anything other than an illusion.

The sound of a sword slicing the air met Guts' ears, and he immediately lifted his sword to parry. Corkus' face was within inches of Guts, blood now dripping from his hair line, the brand positioned quite clearly on his forehead. His teeth clenched together so hard that it crunched, his gums threatening to bleed.

"If you never would have left, none of this would have ever happen, ya know," Corkus' voice was shrill, frightened, but his eyes peered into Guts' face, looking at him as though he was poisonous to the touch, "We'd still be together, fighting, and I'd still be alive."

Emphasizing the word alive by pushing roughly into Guts, it was no surprise that Guts didn't falter because of his sheer size in comparison to Corkus, but his body was completely frozen, eye transfixed on Corkus' face, anger, rage, terror all instantly visible. And without waiting for a reply, Corkus pushed more into the large man, jumping back suddenly and lifting his sword high above his head. "It's that cocky attitude of yours," he began, body bleeding and decaying, "I've never liked you, Guts."

It was instinct as Corkus flew at him. Instinct to lift his sword to defend himself. And even still, to swing his sword reflectively, effectively slicing through Corkus' body, more blood coating his already worn face.

Staggering backwards, Guts' hand shot to his mouth, trying to conceal the inevitable sickness that was making its way up from his stomach. Did he just kill Corkus? No, Corkus was dead to begin with. There was just no way that that _thing_ could have been the man he had once fought alongside, it was impossible. And try as he might to stop himself from throwing up, he couldn't contain it, backing up to a tree, placing his good arm on it to keep balancing as his stomach emptied all its contents.

This was too much, even for Guts. Demons were ruthless, but he couldn't remember a time when one had taken the shape of someone he knew and cared about. It seemed too cruel, like someone was playing an intensely mean joke on him. But still … that person, Corkus or whoever it was, seemed so real. Like it was the actual man that was with him in the Band of the Hawk. But as Guts reasoned to himself again and again, that man was dead.

Steadying himself with Dragon Slayer, Guts realized that he wasn't sure where he was any longer. The forest he had once been in replaced by overwhelming darkness. He couldn't even hear Puck's words of caution any longer. Guts thought to himself that it was some kind of dream he was in, but there was no way to tell. He felt alive, if the intense beating of his heart was any indication. The thumping, erratic against his chest, burning from the inside, mirroring his hidden feelings of fear. He was brought up to believe that fear on the battlefield only brought death and delay. If there was time to think, then he wasn't fighting right. The only thing that should be considered on the battlefield is finishing off your opponent. Weak feelings like emotion and empathy could be contained until after the fight was through.

"What are you doin' out here all by yourself, Guts? Want a little company?"

The pulsing in his chest increased two fold. He knew that voice all too well. Turning around cautiously, not wanting to see who was going to be behind him, but needing to at the same time, Guts' voice came out in a sharp whisper, "Judeau."

"The one and the same," Judeau, or what looked to be, replied to him, giving him that confident smile Guts was so used to. Standing next to the dirty blond haired man was another of Guts' comrades: Pippin. They both, like Corkus, looked perfectly alive. Their bodies strong, looking just as they did up until that day.

They looked alive.

"What's wrong, Guts? You looked like you've seen a ghost," Judeau's laugh shook in Gut's skull, reverberating off of every corner of him, causing his body to shudder. This just couldn't be possible. Corkus and now Judeau and Pippin? They were all dead. All of them. He saw them die so clearly, that it was an impossible image to forget. He remembered everything about that day so clearly so why … why were they returning to him now?

There was no response good enough. He couldn't find words that would be appropriate enough for the situation, so Guts kept his mouth shut. Didn't respond to Judeau who was now walking up to him, hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. It was mere inches from him before Guts took action, adrenaline and fear taking control of his muscles as his hand shot out and smacked Judeau's away, taking a step back in the process. He was breathing so hard his body shook, eye darting between both Judeau's confused expression and Pippin's one of quiet indifference.

"Don't … don't touch me," Guts demanded, quiet but stern, "I don't know you, you're not … you're not _human_."

The form that looked like Judeau shot a look of confusion in Pippin's general direction. The stout man, silent in everything he did, gave Judeau an equally confused look while shrugging his shoulders.

"Guts, are you sure you're--,"

"I don't know who or what you are, but stop fucking with me! I don't need this!"

The Judeau counterpart laughed heartily, his voice seem to multiply in the dark space, amplifying it immensely, making Guts all the more uncomfortable. He walked back over toward Pippin, giving him a knowing smile before turning back to look at Guts.

"All right, we get it. We'll leave you alone for now, Guts," Judeau chuckled, turning to walk into the abyss, leaving Guts to look on in wonder. It was too easy. Something else was going to happen, Guts had a feeling about it. And as he looked after Judeau, he noticed Pippin still standing, looking as though he was waiting for Guts to say something.

"I've got nothin' to say to you, either!" Guts screamed, his voice also surrounding him completely, entering his ears and ringing off the walls of darkness. It really irritated him, for some strange reason, to hear his voice so clearly. It was as if he could hear every ounce of fear and irritation, confusion and sorrow.

But Pippin, looking nothing more than a statue, continued to stand there, gazing in his direction. Guts' swallowing burned in his already dry throat, but he continued to stare at Pippin's unmoving form, wondering what exactly the man wanted.

"Why are you conversing with a dead man, Guts?"

Fear caused the hair on Guts' neck to stand up, his back strengthened as the voice that had come from behind him, right into his hair, he could almost feel the breath on his neck. And then the body of Pippin fell over, blood pooling out of the gaping hole in the man's back, accurately exposing muscle and spine. And that's when Guts backed up right into the hands of Judeau. Fingers bloody and doing their best to curl around Guts' arms, smearing the blood all over them.

Breaking free of Judeau's grip, the now accurately terrified swordsman jumped back and spun on his heels, looking into the face of the Hawks jack-of-all-trades. Eyes slit in fake happiness, blood ran in streams from the young man's mouth, which was also twisted into a coy smirk. A hand reached out for Guts, brand visible and bleeding profusely.

"It's such a shame," Judeau's voice was abnormally calm considering the current situation, reaching for a small knife that was situated around his bloody chest, "that we all had to die that day, don't you think, Guts?"

The knife was thrown, whizzing through the air, making a whistling sound as it went. A stream of red followed from behind it as Guts saw Judeau's body fall limply backwards, his vision blurring him out as the knife approached ever closer. But Guts countered, lifting his sword to deflect the blow. But right when the knife came in contact with his blade, a weight immediately pushed down on him.

Yet another person from that dreadful day; another one who didn't survive. Or maybe that was inaccurate. Caska was still very much alive. She followed Guts on his journey day after day, but … the state she was in now, Guts wondered if she was better off dead. Her sanity had left her and she had become mute. Now, only mimicking babyish babble, the woman that Caska once was, was no longer. But here, in front of Guts, stood the woman that he remembered. The strong woman, who had no trouble in commanding men, effective and efficient with her words and her sword. But as she stood in front of him, another illusion from his past no doubt, Guts saw the un-dying hate in her eyes, reflecting his own sadness back at him.

Their swords scraped together, clashing and slicing along the blade. Guts knew that one wrong move could get him injured, and though he could easily evade Caska's advanced with his own, he didn't have it in himself to strike her. Though this was just a petty illusion of what Caska was, he couldn't hurt her. He didn't dare. He tried to reason with himself that this wasn't Caska, that whoever this was, it was out to hurt him. It wasn't Caska so … why?

But she pushed forward with all her might, face contorted in rage. When finally, she yelled, "It's because of you, Guts! You're the reason why Griffith left us and caused the Band of the Hawk to fall!"

This struck a nerve in Guts. He knew, in a way, that it was somehow his fault that everything ended up as it did. But how was he to know that things would go so awry? He wasn't even aware of his own impact with this group of people until he was gone and found time to reflect. It all went back to that unconscious realization that a person doesn't know what they have until it's gone. Guts had gone over this fact many times in his head. But even still, it was his decision to leave. He had won that right fair and square. Griffith's fall from grace … was unforeseen by everyone.

His thoughts became instantly focused on the fight at hand as Caska's blade sliced his upper left arm. This was an illusion, it had to be. There was no way in the world that this could be real. Yet even as Guts tried to reason with himself that this was true, there was no denying the fact that the blood pooling from his arm felt real. Its warmth, surrounding his fatigued muscles … it brought a sense of reality to this otherworldly situation.

And it was time to attack. He couldn't just stand around, pitying himself for things that had happened. If he was ever going to rectify this situation and bring some peace to himself, then he had to live on. Live and do what his heart was telling him to do.

Gripping his sword tightly, he lunged at Caska, her face showing no signs of surprise or fear. Instead, she continued to look at him coldly, anger obviously welling up inside her. It unnerved Guts that she wasn't saying anything, unlike how Corkus and Judeau were continuously talking, trying to pry deep into him with their words. In a way, this was much, much worse.

The brand on Guts' neck began to ache and bleed. This didn't settle well with him, considering that the brand only did that when demons were near. And at the amount the brand was bleeding, he rationed with himself that it must be an extremely powerful demon. But was this emotion, this raw feeling coming from Caska? At first, that's what Guts' thought. Surely, this was all an illusion, and Caska was nothing but some form of evil spirit herself. But as Gut's looked upon Caska's chest, only to see blood staining her clothes where he knew the brand to be hidden underneath, did he know that something was wrong.

Caska's scream cut into his brain, rendering him exposed for mere seconds, but long enough for Guts to drop his guard. In an instant, he was knocked back by something unseen, something that took the wind out of him, causing his mouth to go wide, lungs straining for breath. As his body hit something solid, head connecting with it as well with a violent thud, Guts' vision was blurring. Focusing was becoming a large issue as his head began to spin and his eye lids grew heavy. But he knew that if he passed out, it would be the end for him.

Another scream, tearing even more violently from Caska's throat, brought Guts out of his haze. There, before him, one member of the Godhand that he knew too well: Griffith. Or should he say Femto? But it mattered not. He could call him asshole, and it would all mean the same. Griffith currently had Caska in his embrace, hands playing along her body, teasing and taunting, and his eyes, those of a hawk waiting for the kill, glaring right at Guts. It was a scene that held so much symbolism of that day, that Guts could hardly stand it. Taking his sword firmly in his grip, fingers squeezing so roughly together that his skin ached in places, his rough hand rubbing against the hilt in with a familiar touch, he ran towards Griffith, towards the object of so many people's pain and suffering, and yet … so many people's strength, hope, and resolve.

But the two people in front of him vanished. And it was a sudden thing, so traces of them left behind at all. The familiar sound of the heart beating came back in full force, slamming once again against Guts' chest, letting him know that he couldn't rest easy just yet. A voice, confident and calm, rang out behind him. And this was one voice he could never forget, even if he tried. This voice always brought out a sense of power in him, always brought out the best in everything he did. But this same voice also instilled a small sense of fear and anxiousness at the same time. While it lifted him up, it also warned him, promised him danger. Telling him not to push too hard and yet harder than he ever had.

"It's good to see you again, Guts."

Dragon Slayer shook in Guts' hands, threatening to fall to the ground. Somehow, Caska had vanished, leaving just the two of them; just Guts and Griffith.

"Griffith," Guts snarled, a world of questions he begged to be answered boiling to the surface. There were so many things he wanted to know about. What happened after he had left the Band of the Hawk? How brutally was Griffith tortured after he was arrested for sleeping with the princess? What caused Griffith's ultimate downfall? And what happened the day of the Eclipse when Griffith had sacrificed all the men he led over as the Hawk's shining ray of light?

Sad thing was, Guts didn't know where to begin. And the hatred that he knew he should've felt for this man, standing so perfectly before him, long, silver hair resting gently on his shoulders. And even the darkness was lessened by Griffith's light. That light which just seemed to come part of the deal. It left Guts in awe, as it usually did, and though he truly admired this man, he wanted so badly to hate him. To be able to strike him down without a second thought, like the countless men he'd slain on the battlefield.

But he couldn't. No matter how intense his anger grew or how much his hatred welled up inside of him, he couldn't find it in himself to absolutely hate Griffith. For all that he'd done for him, that was too hard to throw away. Still …

"Do you think me a dreadful man, Guts," Griffith's voice rang out, repeating the words Guts had heard once before, "for sacrificing them all … to obtain my dream?"

His face showed no sadness or remorse, though his voice tricked him into believing he might have cared. But his mouth, held into an emotionless line, and his eyes, starring, always starring, showed no signs of this man being human any longer. He no longer held the capacity for caring, he was no longer the Griffith that Guts had grown to admire.

"How could you, you bastard?! Weren't they your comrades? Your _friends?!_" Guts' voice was harsh, his emotions now on the surface.

"Friends?" Griffith replied, a smile twisting on his lips, "You know what a friend is to me, Guts. They were merely pawns … in the way of my dream."

"Fuck you and your dream!" Guts spat, finding his bearings, no longer afraid of the presence of Griffith looming over him, "They respected you! They looked up to you! How could you betray them … betray _me_ like that?!"

"If I have to explain it to you," Griffith answered, his smile fading ever slightly, "then you don't deserve to know at all."

In a flash, Griffith's sword was clashing against Guts', but instead of them being surrounded by the darkness that they were once in, they were on a field during a bright, sunny day.

"_I know this."_

The two younger versions of Guts and Griffth went tumbling down a hill, Guts gaining the upper hand and giving Griffith a swift punch to the face, alerting the other Hawks who came running to the side of the hill.

"_This is the day … that I first met him."_

Griffith gained the upper hand, pinning Guts down and snapping his arm from his socket. The rest of the Hawks cheered as Griffith grabbed Guts' face in his hands, putting himself at eye level as he claimed, "You belong to me now, Guts."

"_The day I met Griffith."_

A million memories of being with the Hawks flashed through Guts' vision, and he recounted all the good times and the bad, the battles that were fought, and then the memory of thinking that to truly be Griffith's equal, he would have to leave the Hawks.

"Guts! Why?! Don't you like it here with us?"

"Let him go, Rickert. We don't need him here anyway."

"Guts … please don't …"

"You're … leaving?"

And he recalled that fateful day when he actually left the Hawks. It was cold, snowing. The weather reflecting the mood of everyone: cold, distant, and so very much alone. He had to leave. He couldn't stay there, otherwise Griffith would never accept him as his equal, and that was something Guts' couldn't live with. Otherwise, if he was nothing in Griffith's eyes, then how could he ever try and rise up to Griffith's level and be considered his friend?

"I have to leave. Can't we just say a fond farewell?"

"I thought I told you once, Guts," the memory of this moment shined so brightly to Guts, it was as if he was re-living this moment all over again, "that you belong to me."

But Guts had won that duel. Had proven to Griffith that he wasn't one to blindly follow others, but to make his own dreams as well. And that's when he had left, and at the same time, realized just what he had with this group of people; this Band of the Hawk.

More memories spun through Guts' mind. His training, reconciling with the band, rescuing Griffith, and the fateful day of the Eclipse.

"_I don't … want to see this again."_

Demons rising from the earth, covering it in a red faces, each with their own emotion of pain and fear. Griffith uttering the words that would bind everyone to death. And Guts' world getting smaller as the people he had loved and fought alongside, Corkus, Judeau, Pippin, getting killed, crushed by these demons.

"_I don't want to re-live this day."_

Griffith, in his new form, landing in the ocean of blood that Guts was in, trying his best to survive. Clinging to Caska's form, raping her, causing her to lose herself in the carnage.

"_STOP IT!"_

His demand rang out, shattering the scene before him. The Eclipse was gone, the blood from all his comrades dissipated into solid ground and Guts was surrounded in whiteness, a bright nothing of solitude. A hand reached out to him, covered in shining armor, reflecting a shine in Guts' eyes as he sat up. He was no longer covered in blood, his body no longer tired from the countless battles. And as he lifted a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the intense brightness, he saw them all standing there, smiling at him.

Griffith, Caska, Judeau; they were all there. All of them smiling down at him, nodding in approval. The hand reaching out for him was Griffith's. Strong and dependable, the look on his face was the one he always looked up to. That smile, so confident, and those eyes, shining so warmly, encouraging. For once in a long while, Guts felt content. Like his life was perfect. And he reached out for Griffith's hand, fingers almost touching …

**-xox-**

His good eye shot open instantly, the forest he had been in now returning to focus. It was early morning, the sun barely making it's way over the horizon. And Guts' hand was outstretch in front of him, grasping for something, and a single tear fell from his eye, causing the Black Swordsman to recoil his hand to his face, whipping the tear away briskly.

He had never felt so empty, so completely dead inside. What he had just experienced … wasn't reality, Guts' surmised to himself.

"That must've been some dream," Puck chipped in, coming into Guts' line of sight, "You were screaming and thrashing around. I didn't think we'd ever get you settled down. Guts … are you … crying?"

Guts, for his part, whipped the last bit of tears from his face, standing up and making it considerably harder for Puck to be at eye level. Was it all a dream what happened last night? That couldn't be. It had felt too real to Guts. He remembered it so vividly, and it was much too real to be a dream.

Grabbing Puck and lifting him to better their conversation, Guts demanded, "What happened last night?"

Positioning himself better in Guts' hand, smacking at a few fingers to not squeeze so hard, Puck balanced his head on his hand and replied, "Well, you were killing all these demons. But they just kept on coming. I didn't actually think you were going to be able to finish them all off. Then you went crazy and starting slicing through demons left and right, and Caska and I were just in awe, and then … you collapsed after it was all over."

"_So … it was all a dream after all,"_ Guts whispered to himself silently, not daring to pique Puck's curiosity further, "Well, c'mon. Let's go."

"Ay-ay, sir!" Puck saluted the back of Guts' retreating head, "Come on, Caska! Time to go!"

Guts looked back at the women, a shadow of thing he had witness last night. When she looked at him, it was as if she didn't know him, like he was a strange presence that she had never seen before. This realization hurt Guts. That, and the fact that she may never be the same again. But as she walked closer to him, Guts felt a tingly sensation on his upper left arm. Putting his hand to it, he immediately retracted it when he felt a slight burning. Looking at his fingers, they were covered in blood. But not of that of an open wound, but rather, a wound that had gone without treatment for a few hours.

Recalling his dream, Guts looked blatantly at Caska, her face not showing the usual silliness it had as of late, but a seriousness that Guts hadn't seen in a long while. Mouth hanging open slightly, he chuckled a deep, throaty laugh before turning his attention to the rising sun, illuminating the dirt path ahead while causing the darkness of night to retreat until later.

Perhaps it was more than just merely a dream that Guts had experienced. Maybe it was a sign: A sign for him to let go, a sign for him to never forget. But it only strengthened Guts' resolve as he took the hilt of Dragon Slayer and held it tightly, his mouth curling into a satisfied smirk as he thought of the good old days with the Band of the Hawk, and getting revenge for his fallen comrades.

This was how Guts lived his life. Day by day, doing what he could to survive. It was how he found purpose, how he kept to his convictions. And though the road seemed long, he traveled, tired, yearning for that little sense of peace that he just knew had to be somewhere, longing for him, as he longed for it.

**-xoxoxoxoxoxoxox-**

The End

**-xoxoxoxoxoxoxox-**

A/N: I've had this idea in my head for a while now, and I'm happy that I finally found the opportunity to write it. Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are always appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed it~


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